


Ficlets & Drabbles

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: ficlets and drabbles [1]
Category: Criminal Minds, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few ficlets and dabbles of various ratings, warnings on each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. n Which It Finally Happens

In which Gandalf sets up Bilbo and Smaug:  


“Remember, Bilbo,” Thorin stated, clasping his shoulder, “No one has seen the dragon for many years, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still down there. Whatever you do. Don’t. Wake. Him.”

Bilbo nodded and then glanced up at Gandalf, “Well, shall we?”

“Mm,” Gandalf nodded, a smirk on his face as if they were heading to a picnic instead of crawling down to steal from a dragon’s horde.

They descended the stairs slowly, each step growing hotter as the air became thick with the dragon’s spicy scent. It was overwhelming and yet at the same time oddly soothing. Bilbo breathed it in and shivered.

“I can see,” He whispered carefully, “Why people say they’re mesmerizing.”

“Wait until you see him,” Gandalf whispered back, “His aura is formidable, but his presence… prepare yourself to be swept off your feet.”

Bilbo glanced aside in confusion, “Because of his wings?”

“Hm? What?”

“You said ‘prepare yourself to be swept off your feet’. I assume you mean because his wings are like hurricanes.”

“Oh. Yes. Quite right.”

They continued in silence and Bilbo was all but high from the fumes by the time they reached the base. Around the corner was a faint yellow glow with a shadow that shifted. It took a moment for Bilbo to realize that it was the dragon’s slowly heaving sides as he slept amongst his pile of gold. His legs felt weak but he steeled himself nonetheless and gripped the handle of sting tightly.

“What now, Gandalf?”

“Now we must enter the cave. We will attempt to steal the arkenstone for Thorin, but if that fails we must have a backup plan.”

“Right. Of course. Plan B. Good idea… What is plan B?”

“We find the dragon’s mate.”

“A-a-another dragon? Wouldn’t that be a good deal _worse?”_

“Not at all. Dragons are both rare and magical, and because they are rare magical creatures they are unable to simply find a partner. Their intended mates are special creatures who they search for, gathering gold to use to either lure them in or barter for them. The dragon will trade it’s entire horde for his mate.”

“So how do we find her?”

“Oh, I have my ways. Now. Onward.”

Bilbo nodded and strode forward, easily the bravest thing he’d ever done, though it seemed far less so with a wizard by his side. Bilbo squared himself and walked through the doorway, completely missing the whispered words from Gandalf and the way he gestured towards Bilbo’s sword.

Bilbo crept forward over the piles of gold, feeling drawn towards the gigantic scaled creature before him. He was truly beautiful, his scales dappled in a bit of sunlight that streamed in through a skylight. He shone like a jewel and Bilbo’s heart ached as he realized that this was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen… or ever would.

Bilbo gasped when an eyelid flew open to reveal an eye that shone like an opal. It was easily as large as Bilbo’s torso… and it was a mere foot in front of him.

_How did that happen? When did I get so close? WHY did I get so close?!_

Bilbo was all but hyperventilating as the gigantic head raised up and the creature stared down at him from a tree’s height.

“Well… what have we here? You smell… delicious.”

Bilbo fumbled with his sword, panic rising, and pulled it from it’s sheath to hold up… a bouquet of flowers?!

“Oh… dear,” Bilbo stammered.

“I’m flattered,” Smaug replied with a chuckle, “But I think I prefer _your_ scent little mate, despite the fact it’s tainted with dwarf.”

“M-m-m-mate?”

“I suppose they’ll be wanting their treasure back,” Smaug sighed, his deep voice echoing around the chambers, “Very well. They may have all that was here when I first acquired these halls. What I took after is mine… after all I must have _something_ shower my new beloved with.”

“B-b-b-b-beloved?” Bilbo squeeked.

“Done!” Shouted Gandalf behind him, and brought his staff down on the pile of treasure he stood upon with a loud bang.

When Bilbo blinked his eyes opened he was in an entirely different area and looked up upon the gates to the dwarven kingdom from outside. Gold still surrounded them, but as he watched the dragon shrunk down to a smaller size and folded in upon himself to appear before him as a winged man with dark curls and flashing eyes. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. The gold vanished and in it’s place was an opulent carriage. The smell of baked cakes and roasting meat met his nose and he turned to see a small camp set up with a large basin heating over a second fire.

“First things first I will wash the travel dirt from you,” That deep voice shivered up and down Bilbo’s spine, “Then I will feed you. Then I will take you.”

“T-t-t-take me?” Bilbo stammered.

“Of course. Often and eagerly. You _are_ my mate, after all.”

Bilbo looked up at the dragon, still so much taller than he despite his new form.

“Oh. Well. Lovely,” Bilbo squeaked, and then fainted away.

 


	2. 2) In which John hits on Sherlock and Lestrade wins a bet.

The crime scene was an old one, meaning no body was present, which only made it slightly less bothersome when John walked in drunk off his arse and started shouting at Sherlock. Now, they all knew John had been through hell and back in the last few years. First Sherlock faked his death and then returned, and then John’s wife started displaying severe mental illness. John had tried to stick by her side, but she was so violent that she eventually ended up permanently locked up and John had filed for divorce. The paperwork had just gone through the day before, so John being pissed wasn’t a shock. Him being at a crime scene uninvited, pissed, and with his flies undone was.

“Sherlock. You. Sex,” John slurred.

“Male,” Sherlock replied with a frown, “As you well know. Are you filling some form out or another?”

“ _No_ ,” John argued, “You. Me. Sex. Now.”

“John,” Sherlock stated, standing up and snapping off his gloves, “I told you to stay at home. You’re drunk. Leave before you get an ASBO.”

“No. No m’not leaving till I’ve sexed you.”

“You are… wait, what?” Sherlock turned and gave John a baffled look.

“What’s the date... Yes!” Lestrade shouted, “I win the pool!”

“No! No!” Anderson argued, “Not yet, you don’t! They have to actually _shag_.”

“No one is going to _shag_ ,” Sherlock scoffed.

“And if it happens a week from now it’s _my_ win,” Anderson announced.

“Oh, yes we are,” John stated, “Right here. Right now.”

“Here and now?” Sherlock laughed, “In front of all these people? You really are deep in your cup!”

“No. I’m done. I’m done being… that… and I want to be,” John gestured between Sherlock and himself, “This. With the cluing for looks and the laughing and the takeaway and now… sexing.”

“Sex,” Sherlock repeated back, “Are you mad? You’re straight, drunk, and clearly mourning your dead wife.”

“She’s not dead, she’s crazy. And she’s my _ex_ -wife. And I’m not mourning her. I’m moving passed her into the past.”

“Passed her into the past?” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes. With you. Because I love you, I always have done, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“YES!” Donovan shouted, “50Q Philip! Pay up!”

“Damn it!” Anderson groaned, passing the money over.

“Will you lot grow up!” Sherlock snapped at them, “John, go home. Sober up.”

“No. I’m going to sex you. Now,” John insisted, “I’ve waited long enough, damn it!”

Sherlock sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, “You keep saying that, John, and I’m aware that you mean it, but I don’t think you’re ready.”

“I’m so fucking ready it’s reductive!”

“Reductive?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“You mean ridiculous?”

“Yes! That!”

“Okay, John,” Sherlock smiled warmly, “I’ll make you a deal. If you’re sober enough to undo your flies then I’ll sleep with you.”

“Here and now?” John demanded to know.

“Yes.”

“You better have lube on you, Sherlock, because the game is… something…”

“On?”

“Yes, that!”

John reached down to his already undone flies, swaying a bit on his feet when he looked downward, and confidently and easily re-fastened them.

“There! Now what do you think of _that?!_ ” John demanded, thrusting his hips forward, “Lose those skin-tight pants, because the on-y thing you need to be wearing that close to your arse is _me_!”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock turned towards the man, “Please take John home and place him in his bed. Preferably on his side.”

“Oh no,” John snarled, “You _promised_ Sherlock.”

“I promised if you could undo your flies. Look down.”

John examined his zip and found it done up, “Oh. Shit. Lemme try again.”

“No do-overs,” Sherlock stated firmly, “Home and bed. We’ll discuss this in the morning over tea like responsible _sober_ adults.”

“I don’t want to talk, I want to _fuck_ ,” John whined as Lestrade led him towards the door after giving instructions to Donovan.

“Tomorrow!” Sherlock promised over his shoulder as he went back to examining the stains on the floor. In a lower voice he added, “Provided you remember this at all.”

“Oh, no worries there,” Anderson smirked, “Lestrade filmed it on his phone. Now he’s _sure_ to win the pot!”

“How much is at stake, out of curiousity?” Sherlock asked.

“It started off small, but lots of folk have added in. Lestrade has this whole week. I’ve got the next. Donovan has a month from now…”

“How _much_ ,” Sherlock snapped.

“3000 quid. The whole of the Yard and most of St. Barts are in on it.”

Sherlock gave Anderson a shocked look, “No wonder you’re all so enthusiastic! Well, you’ll be sorry to know that Donovan is more likely to win than yourself or Lestrade. John simply isn’t ready to abandon his preconceived notions of his sexuality.”

“You could always help him along,” Anderson suggested.

Sherlock straightened up, cocking his head to one side thoughtfully, “How so?”

“Go home, strip down, and climb in his bed,” Anderson replied with a grin, “That’ll get him facing it.”

Sherlock laughed, “A fun idea, but that might just go the wrong way. As usual, Anderson, you see only half of the puzzle. John needs to find this on his own.”

“You’ll keep us posted though, yeah?” Donovan asked eagerly.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to tell you when John has _sexed_ me,” Sherlock chuckled, “For now, however, I’ve got to locate a man with a green ladder. The game is on!”

Sherlock got home the next evening to find John pacing the room in concern.

“Sherlock,” John started in, “I know what I said and did- Lestrade showed me his video- and I just want to start off by saying-“

“Spare me the guilt and anxiety riddled discourse,” Sherlock snapped, “I’ve had a horrid day and I’m _hungry_.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” John replied with a sigh, “There’s some stew in the fridge.”

“Hot, please,” Sherlock replied, sinking into his chair.

“Right then, I’ll just heat it up for you,” John replied with an annoyed huff.

“You’re so good to me, John,” Sherlock muttered, and then drifted off right where he sat.

John turned and gave him a fond look from the kitchen.

 _Maybe… maybe I_ am _ready._


	3. In which Mycroft covers himself in flavoured fake blood

Inspired by this youtube clip: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhuR1VMkpXM>

Dedicated to my friend [Queenoftheuniverse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse).

 

“Gregory _what_ are you doing?” Mycroft demanded to know.

Lestrade stepped out from behind the glass he’d been using to ward off the fake blood spatter.

“My blood spatter analyzer- you remember Dexter?”

Mycroft smirked, “The serial killer? Yes, I recall.”

“The what now?”

“Nothing. Do go on.”

“Well, he’s called out of work again. Something about needing to catch an alligator that’s been plaguing his back yard. Apparently it’s gotten personal so he won’t call animal control.”

“Hm, must be a brawny one,” Mycroft mused, thinking of the maximum height and weight of Dexter’s previous kills. It was rare he had trouble taking one down.

“You mean long?”

“Yes, of course. So you’re doing the blood spatter analysis yourself? Don’t you have _subordinates_ to do that?”

“Yeah, but I’m the best at it. I made the blood myself,” Lestrade stated, “I just wish there was a way to make it _taste_ better. It’s always getting in my mouth. How do murderer’s do this?”

“Hm,” Mycroft replied, his mind drifting off as Lestrade walked back around and slammed the hammer into the gellied skull. Fake blood splattered everywhere and Mycroft frowned. It looked incredibly unrealistic.

Back at home, Mycroft finished his concoction, smiling as he sampled a finger full.

“Oh, this is _devine_ ,” Mycroft chuckled, and then went into the shower to drizzle it liberally all over his body.

He stretched out in the tub with a smirk and waited for Gregory to return home. Sure enough he walked into the house a few minutes later, shouted his arrival, and started wandering through the house to find Mycroft. Mycroft giggled eagerly, running his fingers through the sticky substance.

_Good thing I was and shave regularly._

“Myc! Where are you?” Lestrade walked into the bathroom and froze, staring in horror at the scene before him.

Mycroft frowned as all the color drained out of Lestrade’s face and he sagged against the doorframe.

“Oh, gods, no,” He gasped.

“What on earth is the matter?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade screamed.

“What on _earth_ is wrong with you?!” Mycroft snapped, sitting up fully.

“You… you… what is that all over you?”

“Peppermint flavoured fake blood,” Mycroft smirked, “It looks more realistic as well. I’ll give you the recipe and…”

“You _bastard_! I thought you’d been _murdered!_ ”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mycroft scoffed, “I’m clearly sitting up, my eyes are open and unglazed…”

“You’re covered in _blood_! All I saw was that!”

“Then you’re clearly not very observant.”

“If you channeling Sherlock is supposed to be erotic, you’re as far off with that as you are with the fake blood!”

“Did I mention it’s peppermint flavoured and _covering my body_?”

Gregory paused for a moment, “Okay. Just let me wash up in the other bathroom.”

“Hurry, it’s dripping between my cheeks… and I don’t mean the ones on my face.”

“Fuck it,” Lestrade growled, and began tugging his clothes off in a hurry.


	4. 4) In which Sherlock becomes available… as he always was.

Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Language, Sexual References, M/M/M, Olympics, Homophobia.

“This place is a slum,” Sherlock growled, flopping down in a chair that creaked threateningly, “No one’s even _died_ yet!”

“Sherlock,” John growled.

“Not good?”

“We’re here to suss out any plots against anyone _before_ they happen! There isn’t to _be_ any murders,” Lestrade scolded, “If you ask me _preventing_ premeditated murder is more exciting than figuring out what has already happened.”

“You know what, Lestrade?” Sherlock stated, perking up a bit, “That’s actually a bit inspired.”

“Thank you.”

“Now look around this room and tell me what you can deduce about it,” Sherlock instructed.

“Oh no,” Lestrade argued, “I’m not falling for that again!”

“John?” Sherlock asked.

John didn’t even pause in their unpacking, “There’s only one bed and it’s _small_.”

“Exactly.”

“Shit,” Lestrade sighed, “I’ll go back down to the front desk- well the owner’s room since there’s no damn front desk- and get this straightened out.”

“Save your breath,” John replied, “There was a line of complainers on the way up and they were all being told to suck it up. I’m going out. We need several gallons of water. You can only piss in the toilets here, the shower is useless.”

“I can see why you’re concerned there may be a murder,” Sherlock growled.

“I’m more concerned with the rampant homophobia, actually,” Lestrade replied with a sigh, “Though the conditions around here are quickly becoming a better motive.”

“To think that homosexuality would be accepted in so many places, yet we’re holding the Olympics _here_ ,” John growled out.

“Idiots,” Sherlock replied, “This wouldn’t happen if we all just took care of our needs ourselves.”

“Well,” John replied, clearing his throat, “I’ll just be off. I’ll get some packaged food too, just in case nothing is edible here.”

“Good call,” Lestrade nodded, “Might want to pick up a couple of pillows and blankets, and an inflatable mattress or something wouldn’t hurt.”

“Right,” John nodded.

John spent the rest of the day hunting down supplies while Sherlock and Lestrade wandered about. Sherlock disqualified a number of athletes based on drug use and made a list for Lestrade of all those likely to fall under hate crimes. By the time they returned to their rooms Lestrade was convinced the only murder happening was going to be their own.

“Look on the bright side,” Sherlock chirped, “No bombs.”

“I’m glad you put that down as a positive,” Lestrade sighed, “I take it you’re not bored.”

“Not yet, in fact…” Sherlock yawned, “I’m tired. There is decidedly too much rubble to climb over around here.”

“Yeah, I’m beat, too. Where the hell is John?”

John slammed through the door and dropped a bag of groceries on the floor before lowering down two large containers of water.

“There is not a pillow, not a blanket, not a stray couch cushion to be had in the entire of Russia!”

Sherlock opened his mouth and took a breath in to reply but Lestrade hushed him with a warning growl.

“Let’s just go to bed. It’ll be a bit tight, but we’ll manage. At least it isn’t a single bed, yeah?”

“What size _is_ that?” Sherlock wondered, “The measurements aren’t right for…”

“Who’s going to sleep next to _Sherlock_?” John asked, his voice filled with horror.

“Uhhh, flip for it?” Lestrade asked.

“A 50/50 shot? I don’t like those odds,” John replied.

“Do I offend?” Sherlock asked with a snarl.

“Yes,” Lestrade and John both replied.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed and he sniffed his armpits curiously. John and Lestrade laughed.

“Do your thing, John,” Lestrade chuckled, “Explain it in ‘Sherlockian’.”

“Sherlock, you know how we’re Alphas and you’re an Omega?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“Well,” John explained carefully, “Most Alphas and Omegas have these things called ‘sex drives’.”

“Go on,” Sherlock nodded, leaning forward curiously.

“Which makes them want to have sex an awful lot, usually with the opposite partner, and scent and physical contact are both big parts of that drive.”

Sherlock nodded to show he was still following along.

“So basically,” John replied, “Being squished into a tiny bed and pressed up against an Omega for an entire night is going to ensure lots of awkward poking with our dicks and no sleep for whomever is unlucky enough to be right up against you.”

Lestrade nodded at his succinct explanation, but Sherlock sat back in his chair and started to laugh.

“Here comes the ‘I’m better than you’ speech,” Lestrade sighed.

“Are you daft?” Sherlock laughed, “No, wait, don’t answer that. Clearly you are!”

“Sherlock, don’t be an ass or we’ll make you sleep on the floor.”

“Do you honestly think I’m _immune?_ ” Sherlock demanded to know.

John and Lestrade stared at him blankly so Sherlock got himself under control to explain himself better.

“I’m just as aroused by you two as you are by me,” Sherlock explained, “I’m not asexual, as you lot all seem to think, I just don’t go in for messy relationships with people who can only fulfill half- if that- of my needs. Honestly, the way you two run around throwing money into the wind, humiliating and inconveniencing yourselves, pretending to be someone you’re not…”

“We get it, Sherlock,” John cut him off.

“If it’s such a difficulty just have sex with me and get it over with. Then we can all sleep peacefully,” Sherlock stated, “Just so long as you don’t start _courting_ me or some other such rot.”

John and Lestrade both gaped at him, then Lestrade swallowed and summoned up the courage to reply, “Which of us?”

“Both or either,” Sherlock shrugged, “It hardly matters to me. It’s only meeting a biological imperative. Frankly it’s been ages since I last engaged in coitus, I barely recall what it was like. It should be an enjoyable distraction… though I’d prefer it if you hurry it up. I’m quite tired.”

“Are you… do you mean to tell me,” John started, his temper rising, “That all these years I could have been fucking you so long as I didn’t treat you any differently than I have?”

“Well that would be a bit difficult,” Sherlock replied, “I mean we’re practically married as it is, but essentially yes.”

“At _any_ point in time?!” John asked, his voice ragged.

“Well no, of course not,” Sherlock snorted, “I’m not likely to be interested during a case or when I’m composing or…”

“So basically, when you’re _bored._ ”

“Yes, that would be acceptable.”

“So I could have bent you over, buggered you senseless, and then not had to tolerate your whining and shooting things?!”

Sherlock blinked a few times, “I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, that would be quite the solution.”

“I’m going to kill you,” John stated softly, “I’m going to fuck you into that tiny mattress, and then I’m going to kill you.”

“No you’re not,” Lestrade growled, “You may have first dibs being his flatmate, but I want sloppy seconds! We’ll _both_ kill him after.”

“Deal,” John agreed, starting on his trousers.

“You’re both morons,” Sherlock snapped, “And if you’re going to be petulant just because you never noticed that I had a sex drive before now then I’m not going to have sex with you!”

Sherlock stomped over to the bathroom and slammed the door. John kept undressing.

“You think he’ll change his mind?”

“No, but if he doesn’t mind anyone around buggering him he’s sure as hell not going to complain about me wanking in the same room with him. Hell, I’m planning on being in the same _bed.”_

“Good point,” Lestrade agreed and started stripping as well.

A/N I really, really, really hope nothing horrible happens at he Olympics this year, so I’m mentally sending Sherlock there to foil any plots. If something DOES, then I swear I wrote this before it did and mean no disrespect.


	5. In Which Sherlock has a Type

Warnings: Fat & hair worship  
  
John was horrified. It had started out as a few pounds, but now it was a full stone. In fact, now it was  _over_  a full stone. He was big and hairy. The hairy had been sexy when he was thin, but now it wasn’t so much. Now he was just big and hairy. He spent unfortunate amounts of time in front of the mirror in 221B wishing he could lose the weight and poking at his flab.

“Sherlock!” John shouted out finally, “Sherlock come here a second!”

“What are you shou… good gods,” Sherlock gasped, stopping in the bathroom doorway.

“Okay, yeah, it’s awful. I know. So I need your help.”

“Yes. Of course. All right. Shall we start with the back or the front?” Sherlock asked, his voice oddly choked.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. What was it you needed help with?”

“Losing this weight! I know most folks put on a few pounds right around this age, not to mention after leaving active duty, but this is ridiculous! Look at this! I have boobs, Sherlock! Man boobs!”

“Yes. I see them,” Sherlock replied, swallowing and shifting uncomfortably, “What about the hair? Is that new?”

“Actually, now that you mention it I’ve always been hairy but I swear I’m growing  _more_.”

“That’s unusual. It implies an increased testosterone production.”

“Increased…” John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “What do you mean? Have you done anything to me?”

“What? No! I’ve not… Look, why not make peace with it?”

“With man boobs and excessive hair?”

“Sure.”

“Are you daft? I’d like to get a leg over again someday, I’ll never pull any women while looking like this!”

“Well… there are… things.”

“Things? You mean like sex toys?”

“No I mean like… groups.”

“Groups?”

“For men who look like you.”

“You mean fat clubs. I don’t want to join a  _fat club_ , can’t you just help me work out? You’re thin as a rail!”

“More’s the pity.”

“What?”

“I’m not talking about fat clubs, John. Or exercising. I’m talking about accepting yourself as you are and seeking out those who enjoy your new physical form.”

“What, girls who like fat blokes?”

“Or men. I’m part of a group that’s very accepting of your sort of… figure.”

“What, fat and hairy?”

“We call them bears.”

“Oh, yeah?” John chuckled, “What do you call the ones that like them? Blind?”

“Cubs, usually, though I find the term degrading.”

“I agree.”

“You find cubs degrading as well?” Sherlock asked with a smile.

“I find the entire concept degrading. Being fat is unhealthy!”

“Being  _morbidly obese_  is unhealthy. Being a bit heavy is nice and soft.”

So saying Sherlock reached out and ran his hand down John’s spine and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his waist to run his fingers through the hair over his belly. John shivered and his eyes widened in shock.

“Married to your…”

“I didn’t know you well then… nor was I quite as attracted as I am now.”

“So then this…” John’s hand reached up stroked along Sherlock’s fingers, “This is possible now.”

“Quite,” Sherlock replied, leaning down to brush his lips over the fluttering pulse at his neck.

Two hours later they lay sweaty and panting, the bed a mess and their bodies sated. John had never bottomed before, but he found he rather liked it when Sherlock stared at him as if he were the most erotic thing in the world. He’d also never had his love handles slapped before. It was surprisingly nice.

“So. Bear?” Sherlock panted.

“So. Cub?”

“I prefer the term ‘Weight Enlightened’.”


	6. In Which John Explains Something to Sherlock

Sherlock was moping. He was miserable and sullen and had been for days. Normally John just let him work through it, but this time he couldn’t help but think he needed someone to talk to.

“Okay, spill it,” John stated, sitting on the coffee table and staring down at his barely-dressed flatmate.

“Go away.”

“Come on, then. What’s bothering you. I know it’s not your normal moodiness. You’re too deep in and you abandoned a _case_. What happened?”

Sherlock rolled over and gave John a contemplative look, “You heard what Donovan and Anderson said?”

“What, at the crime scene three days ago?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, “The thing about you being so smart but still being stupid about things like my feelings and your own?”

“That’s it, yes.”

“I know you care if people think you’re stupid, but frankly that’s got nothing to do with being smart or not. You’re just a bit… different.”

Sherlock sighed and sat up, “I know that. You know that.  _They_  know that.”

“Yeah, okay. So?”

“So why does it  _bother_  me?” Sherlock asked, “It isn’t even something  _important_. I know you’d tell me if you were upset about something. Loudly, in fact. Yet their words  _hurt_  me despite that. One thing hurts so much more than your  _repeat_ praise can counter. Why?”

They stared at each other for several seconds before John realized Sherlock was actually looking for an answer this time.

“Oh, you’re actually… looking for an answer… from me?”

“Yes, preferably. The skull tends not to reply.”

“Well, thank gods for that,” John sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, “See… this is where you having some knowledge of the solar system would  _actually_  come in handy.”

“I fail to see how,” Sherlock replied in annoyance.

“Let me get my laptop.”

“Okay…” Sherlock waited until John came back and sat down beside him.

“Here we go. Look at these figures, Mr. Spock, and tell me what you see?”

“I see that the sun is 1,391,000 km across and the average cumulus cloud is only one.”

“Good, right, so what does that tell you?”

“That people can’t measure something if they can’t touch it.”

“Wait… sorry… what?” John asked in confusion.

“Anyone with  _eyes_  can see that clouds- the ones worth talking about- are bigger than the sun. They block it out for pity’s sake!” Sherlock scoffed.

“There. That. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re told constantly that you’re brilliant. You know you are for a fact. You have evidence that you are. You’ve gone to school and have degrees. Then someone comes along and calls a certain minor aspect of you stupid. It’s the cloud to your sun,” John explained.

Sherlock thought on that for a moment, “You’re avoiding explaining why the interweb things the sun is bigger than clouds.”

“Damn it, Sherlock… Okay. Just. Okay. The sun is  _farther away_  than clouds are. That’s why it blocks it out. That’s why they look bigger.”

“So you’re saying the reason Anderson and Donovan’s words hurt is because they’re… what? Closer to me?”

“Or closer to the truth. Or closer to something that makes you vulnerable. Or closer to something that hurt you in the past.”

“So your point is that the sun is bigger than clouds, but appears smaller based on proximity?”

John sat back and rubbed at his forehead, taking several slow, deep breaths, “My point is that what they’re saying isn’t as big a deal as you think. It hurts now because it’s the most recent thing you’ve heard, but tomorrow we’ll go on another case and Lestrade will let on how invaluable you are to him. Or Molly will gush when you stroke her microscope in a naughty way. Or I’ll tell you you’re fantastic and brilliant and I’m awed by you.”

“Are you?”

John sighed, looked heavenward, found no help there, and looked back at Sherlock, “Yes.”

Sherlock smiled and stood up, “Let’s go out to dinner. My treat.”

“What for?”

“Being a good friend to me.”

“I’m… lost a bit. I think.”

“You usually are. I’ve just thought of another part to your analogy.”

“That would be?”

“Sunsets.”

“Sorry?”

“Sunsets. They’re essentially the clouds trying to block out the sun and failing, the light refracts off the water in the clouds and creates a beautiful scene that lovers everywhere stop and gaze at and make ridiculous comparisons to their love.”

“Okay… still lost.”

“So all that hurt will make me better in time, if I just wait until I’m old enough to have learnt from it.”

John smiled like the sun, “There you go being brilliant again.”  
  



	7. In Which Sherlock has a Significant 'Other'

WARNINGS: M/M, Frottage, Kinkiness

“Oh gods, yes…” Sherlock moaned.

John snickered and headed into the toilet without a second thought, but on his way out another, louder moan caught his attention.

“You’re so damn  _good!_ ”

John paused outside the bathroom door and gaped at Sherlock’s doorway. He debated for a moment and then took a few steps closer to the door. The bed creaked loudly, and the sound of a man stroking himself was readily obvious. This time when Sherlock moaned again his mouth sounded rather… full. John was too shocked to know how to take that so he backed away and bolted for his room as soon as he was sure he wouldn’t be overheard.

The next day John caught Greg alone while Sherlock was studying a corpse and told him what he’d overheard. Greg was as shocked as John had been.

“So… it was a man?”

“No idea. Could have been a woman.”

“What would have been in his mouth?”

“Tits, Greg. They have tits. Has it really been that long since your wife let you near her?”

“She’s barely got any,” Greg replied, waving his hand in dismissal, “You didn’t see anything to let on who or  _what_  it was the next morning?”

“You mean like a bra or pants lying about? No. I did peer into his room- you know he never shuts a door unless it’s in Anderson’s face- but there was nothing out of sorts. Someone did eat over, though. There was a plate in the sink.”

“Hmmm, and Sherlock barely eats,” Lestrade replied in a considering tone, as if that were the most valuable of clues.

John snickered, “Well, I guess that rules out blow up dolls.”

Sherlock returned at that point, so John and Greg dropped the conversation but silently dared each other to talk to him until Sherlock sighed and butted in on their eyebrow waggling and snickering.

“What? You might as well say it, I’m not as oblivious to your ‘subtle social cues’ as you seem to think.”

“John?” Greg insisted.

“Greg?” John insisted.

“You’re the one who overheard them last night…”

“Overheard who?” Sherlock demanded, sharp eyes pinning John to his chair.

“Ahhhh, well, I heard you and your… partner… in bed. I didn’t mean to… I…”

“You heard… what exactly?” Sherlock asked, shocking them by turning bright red.

“You moaning about how great it was,” John replied, cheesing like a teenager.

Sherlock groaned in humiliation, rubbing at his face, “Anything else?”

“He said your mouth was full!” Greg giggled.

“Of what?” Sherlock asked, giving them both a sharp look.

“You tell us,” John replied with a leer, “Go on, then? Who finally got the great Sherlock Holmes to put down his magnifying glass and have a roll in the bed like a normal bloke.”

“Stay out of it!” Sherlock snapped, then turned and fled Lestrade’s office, heading for the lifts.

“What the hell?” Greg asked.

“Just makes me more curious,” John decided with a huff of frustration.

A few weeks later John woke up from a nightmare and went downstairs to find his laptop. Instead he found Sherlock cooking, humming to himself as he stirred a pan full of tomato gravy.

“Oh… John… you’re up,” Sherlock noticed, appearing uncomfortable.

John grinned broadly, “Your date is here isn’t… it.”

“No.”

“Yeah? The look on your face says otherwise,” John checked the sitting room but found it empty, so he turned and bolted for Sherlock’s bedroom door. He didn’t even try to stop him and John came back sulking after finding the room empty, “No one’s there.”

“Of course there isn’t anyone there.”

“At least tell me male or female!” John insisted, “Come on! I’m your best friend, you can tell me that!”

“Go back to bed, John,” Sherlock sighed, pouring the gravy over some pasta and adding a sprinkle of parmasan cheese. He finished it off with a few fresh basil leaves and smiled at his results quite happily.

“When did you learn how to cook?” John asked grouchily.

“It’s hardly different from chemistry,” Sherlock replied, “Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock headed to his bedroom with his plate of pasta and John sighed and sat himself down on the chair. An hour later Sherlock came out looking flushed and a bit frustrated. He leaned around the corner between kitchen and sitting room, his upper half revealed but his lower half hidden.

“Have we any chocolate?”

“I think there’s some biscuits,” John replied, “Try the cupboards.”

Sherlock headed away, grumbling miserably, and then walked back in with a furious look on his face and his dressing gown gripped in his hands in front of him.

‘There is absolutely none! Go to the store.”

“No,” John replied, outraged, “It’s four in the bloody morning! You want sweets, you go to the store, and good luck finding one that’s open.”

“Tesco isn’t?”

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t frequent it at 4 AM!”

“John,” Sherlock whinged, “I  _need_  that chocolate! Preferably mousse.”

“No. Bugger off.”

Sherlock moaned and banged his head against the doorframe.

John scoffed, “If your date wants chocolate tell him or her to go get some or get it yourself, I’m not running errands so you can get laid. Especially not with how you sabatoge my dates.”

“I haven’t got a date, John! I’ve got a chocolate craving!”

“You’ve got an erection you’re trying to hide- and failing- and have started eating in your room. I was a teenager once, Sherlock. I know how this stuff goes. Tell whoever it is to stop sneaking in your window. We’re adults. I won’t be a prick about whoever you’re dating.”

“I’m not dating anyone! There’s no one in my room! See for yourself!”

John scoffed and got up to go snoop Sherlock’s room. The room was empty, the only unusual signs of activities were a bottle of lube on the bedside and his plates and cups.

“Must have snuck out when you shouted.”

“Unbelievable!” Sherlock scoffed, throwing his arms up in the air.

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock. Who could it possibly be that I’d be bothered? Anderson? Mycroft?”

“Ander…  _Mycroft?!_ ” Sherlock gave him a horrified look, “If you were trying to get rid of my erection you’ve succeeded!”

“Your welcome.”

“Good night!” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“Night,” John replied with an annoyed sigh as the man stormed off.

It was nearly two months later when Sherlock’s mysterious lover showed up again and this time John was ready. He camped outside of the bedroom door and listened in as Sherlock moaned and groaned, thrashing about on the bed and gasping in pleasure. Not a sound from his mysterious partner. John’s suspicions were building so he headed to the kitchen to make them known. Then he knocked on Sherlock’s door, and kept knocking until the angry man answered. Sherlock emerged with his hair ruffled, his face flushed, and his clothes disorderly.

“Fun night?” John asked with a grin, scooping a bit of chocolate mousse from the crystal bowl he held in one hand onto a spoon and lazily licking it off.

Sherlock followed his motions as if captivated, his pupils dilating as John swallowed and Sherlock’s eyes even made it to his Adams apple.

“What?” Sherlock asked, completely distracted.

“I said, ‘would you like a bite’?” John asked.

“Oh gods yes,” Sherlock breathed.

John slipped the spoon into Sherlock’s mouth and his eyes fell shut as he moaned lewdly, a shiver going through his body.

“Foodie,” John grinned.

Sherlock was rolling the chocolate around on his tongue, his face heated, and when he opened his eyes the look was so debauched that John swallowed as he felt his own trousers growing tight.

“Oh, you bad, bad man,” Sherlock purred.

“I… I’m…”

“That was the last bite, was it?”

John glanced down at his empty bowl, “There wasn’t much left…”

“You’ve got a bit on your chin,” Sherlock growled, then leaned forward and licked it up before John could react.

John froze, alarmed at the turn in his plans, and then gasped as a hot tongue seeking the last of the chocolate mousse invaded his mouth. John was propelled backwards and found himself pinned to the bathroom doorjamb while Sherlock thrust his tongue about his mouth as if intent on devouring him. Sherlock’s hips were rutting frantically against John’s own hips and the blonde man found himself with his hands full of full bottom as he groaned and rolled his hips up towards the source of his pleasure. All too soon Sherlock stilled and groaned out his climax, shivering in John’s arms as waves of pleasure washed over him. He pulled away despite John’s protests.

“You… you can’t leave me like this!” John gasped as Sherlock headed back to his bedroom with a satisfied smile on his face.

“Next time bring enough for two,” Sherlock smirked, and slammed his bedroom door in John’s face.  
  



	8. In Which John Asks for Help Twice, and is Answered The Second Time

WARNING: Mentions child abuse.

He’d been eight when he’d read the book that had mentioned soldiers blinking S.O.S. when captured. He’d spent two hours in front of his mirror perfecting it after renting a book from the library that taught morse code. He tried it at school the next day. And the next. And the next. No one noticed. He decided that S.O.S. was too simple, so he learned  _all of it_  and started telling everyone his story in silent; blinking out what he couldn’t say aloud for fear of retribution.

_My father beats me._

_My father beats my mum._

_My father ignores my sister._

_That doesn’t sound as bad, but it is actually worse._

_I think she has died inside._

_I think I am dying too._

_Help me._

_S.O.S._

_Someone save me._

They noticed, but they thought there was something wrong with him physically or mentally. They had his eyes checked and then sent him to have his brain checked as well. They ruled out everything and told his parents to get him a therapist. His father decided his brand of therapy worked better. John stopped using morse code. The counselor stopped him once, put his hand on his shoulder, and told him he was proud of John for recovering so quickly from whatever was ailing him. He told him the rugby his father had signed him up for was obviously helping. John did his best not to blink  _you are a fucking idiot_  because it wasn’t worth it to end up locked in a hot cupboard for a weekend again.

Thirty years later John Watson stood in a pool looking at the agony on Sherlock Holmes’ face. His mind railed against the idea of dying without convincing his best friend that he hadn’t tricked him while murdering innocent people and fucking with his head. He was blinking before he knew it.

S _._

He was a bit rusty.

_S.O.S. SOSSOSSOSSOSSOSSOS_

Understanding. Fear. Worse fear, because John had opened his vest and Sherlock was now facing losing someone. Was that worse or better? Possibly both.

Then it was over and they were walking away from it and John felt a spring in his step that had been lacking his entire life. Sure, there was a madman out there and he’d be back, but Sherlock was at his side and this time he’d been answered. He’d been saved. And he wasn’t a helpless child anymore. He could protect his friend, and he would. He’d save him from the insane Jim Moriarty and the man who looked into him with ease would be able to smile and laugh- and make  _John_  smile and laugh- for the rest of their lives.

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OuTRZ__y2p8>

 


	9. In Which Sherlock has Something More Important to do Than The Work

No one was more shocked than John. For Sherlock to say that there was something more important than the Work was shocking enough, but for him to then refuse to tell them what it was and take off in a clearly embarrassed state was both surprising and confusing. John texted him over and over again, trying to figure out why Sherlock would be hiding something from him, but to no avail. Finally he gave up and decided that if he had no plans for the day he’d meet up with Harry. She’d been nagging him to join her for a Pride Parade for years, and now he had the time. He arranged to meet her on Trafalgar Square by the steps, but as usual Harry underestimated the situation. There were  _thousands_  of people gathered there; each with an outfit more loud and daring than the last, and at least a hundred people had managed to crowd on the steps. John texted her three times and then gave up and started just searching the crowd.

That was when he ran across Sherlock.

In a flowered, shaped, tankini and black booty shorts, complete with thigh high stockings, heart shaped sunglasses, and a pride scarf tied to his wrist. John gaped at him. Sherlock gaped at John. Then both self-consciously folded their arms over their chests, causing Sherlock to chuckle a bit. John spat out the first thing that he managed to think of at that moment.

“I really hope you’re wearing sun cream.”

“Sun cream? Really?” Sherlock replied, smile drawing across his face.

“Well, are you?” John asked, surprised at the hostility in his tone.

“Yes, I’ve got sun cream on.”

“Good,” John nodded firmly.

“You’re overdressed,” Sherlock smirked.

“What?” John asked. He’d worn his usual clothes and tossed on his military helmet and a camo handkerchief just to have a theme going.

“This is meant to be festive,” Sherlock smirked, “You’re hardly going to end up on Got Talent in that getup.”

“I’m not about to…”

“To what?” Sherlock smirked, “Strip down to your favourite red pants and parade around the square?”

“I… um… How did you know I was wearing…?”

“Come off it, John. Loosen up a bit,” Sherlock shifted his hands onto his hips and John did _everything_  in his power to not stare at him. It didn’t work, “Oh, and there it is. I’ve been debating it for months. John ‘Not Gay’ Watson. Yet ‘not gay’ doesn’t mean ‘ _straight’_ , now does it?”

John smirked a bit, “Yeah, well I might have been having a bit of fun with that.”

“Bi or pan?”

“I prefer bi, yeah.”

“Well then,” Sherlock grinned cheekily, “You’re going to need a flag.”

“Yeah?” John asked, lifting his chin with challenge in his eyes, “Then you’re going to need to buy me dinner after.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and John let himself enjoy that attention, “Very well. It’s past time I took back the words we shared at our first dinner.”

“Glad you think so too,” John grinned, and started undoing his buttons.

Sherlock smirked, “Looks like we’re going to need some more sun cream.”  
  
Inspired by this post: http://justaholmesboy.tumblr.com/post/91348993963/loudest-subtext-in-television


	10. In Which Mrs. Holmes Turns Positively Monstrous

Everything was prepared. Mary, John, Sherlock, and baby Michael were over for a visit. Mycroft hadn’t made it, but she could forgive him this once; especially in light of her plans. So Wanda Holmes settled her boys and Mary down to tea, the little one sipping on a sippy cup.

“So he’s all weaned now?” Wanda asked conversationally.

“Yes, all weaned, thank gods!” Mary laughed, “I’m not a human cow anymore!”

“Mm,” John nodded.

“John’s especially relieved about that,” Sherlock informed his mother, “As he was being kept away from Mary’s breasts.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, dear,” Wanda replied patting his hand comfortingly and ignoring the fact he was staring at Sherlock in horror, “I know how it is to make sacrifices for your children.”

They continued tea with John having markedly more trouble meeting everyone’s eyes. She could always count on Sherlock to make things easier for her. With John fit to bitch Sherlock out it wasn’t hard to invite Mary outside to see her garden, and when she suggested the (almost walking!) baby be left behind due to thorns… it was just too easy!

Mary and Mrs. Holmes headed outside and around to the side of the house where she chatted away at her about her flowers, including their scientific names and breeding history, until her eyes glazed over. Perfect. They moved closer to the well. Wanda knew from hacking Mycroft’s files that Mary was a dangerous person, so she’d come well prepared. She reached her hand into her gardening apron pocket, babbling about pruning the vines around the well, and fired a dart gun with a silencer on it out of the hole in the bottom pocket. Mary stared in shock at the barb protruding from her leg, then reacted as predictably as Wanda had thought she would. She lashed out, intending to get in a kill shot, but Wanda dodged easily and the drugged woman toppled forward and into the well, helped with a hand on her ankle (pocket the dart) to make sure she cleared the edge smoothly. Mary dropped like a stone, not even getting out a scream. Wanda pulled the bucket into the center again and set about pruning the ivy that had gotten trampled and raking the grass and woodchips. Once she had all the evidence of a fight removed she walked it over to her compost heap and stirred it in with a pitchfork, careful not to squish too many of her composting worms. She then headed over and continued pruning her garden, happily chatting away to the air. An hour later the boys came out, Sherlock looking chagrined, and asked her where Mary was.

“Well…” Wanda straightened up, brushing off her gardening gloves, “Well, that’s odd. She was just here! I was telling her about my hydrangeas… well, that is the height of rude!”

John’s brow furrowed and Sherlock glanced around the area, “Have you been raking?”

“I was pruning while we were talking,” Wanda replied, “I asked Mary to rake for me.”

“Is that the last time you saw her?” Sherlock asked, turning in place as he looked around the lawn and garden.

“Now let me think,” Wanda considered a moment, tapping her chin with one finger, “I went over to the compost heap a few times… She’d left part of things undone so I finished it… Now that you mention it, I think it was. Why, dear?”

Sherlock walked over to the well and glanced into it before turning sharply, “John, go inside.”

“What? Why?” John asked, heading over with his son on his hip.

Sherlock stepped forward quickly and planted a hand on John’s shoulder and the other on his elbow where his son was nestled.

“Because though he’s unlikely to recall it at a conscious level I don’t think it wise for Michael to see his mother like that,” Sherlock said softly, his eyes piercing into John’s.

Wanda made a show of hurrying to the well and letting out a sharp, horrified cry.

“Like wh…” John stopped, his eyes widening, “Oh gods… oh gods, no…”

“Go inside,” Sherlock said softly, “Mum?”

“Come along, John,” Wanda stated, her throat closing up as she forced out tears, “I’ll get you some pie. You like rhubarb, don’t you dear?”

Wanda was sobbing outright by the time they got inside, pressing John to sit at the kitchen table. He looked shocked, completely at a loss for what to do. She cut the pie and added a scoop of ice cream in a little dessert bowl beside it. She gave Michael a teething biscuit from the diaper bag.

“Now don’t you worry about a thing, John,” Wanda sniffled, dabbing some drool from Michael’s chin, “Sherlock, Tim, Mycroft, and I… we’ll all be here for you.”

“I’m a single dad,” John stated softly, “I don’t even know what he eats every day… or how often… Mary was taking care of all that.”

Sherlock stepped inside just as sirens reached their ears from down the lane.

“I called it in, obviously,” Sherlock stated softly, “John, they’ll want to talk to you. I suggest we take it in turns and keep Michael out of the room during questioning.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course,” John replied, “How did she… end up in there?”

“I’ll tell you after we all give our statements to the police,” Sherlock replied, hesitantly putting his hand on John’s shoulder. Physical demonstrations were never his strong point, “I want everything to be simple and straightforward. It will get it over with faster. Mummy, you’re first.”

Wanda went to answer the doors while Sherlock ushered John into the guest bedroom he and Mary were to be staying in. She could hear them knocking about, probably getting the baby settled in to play. She tearfully gave her statement to the police and then went to relieve Sherlock. John’s eyes were wet but he was coping; likely for his son’s sake. Then it was John’s turn and when he came back in it was with a freshly scrubbed face. Wanda had expected an interrogation from her son while John was away, but he merely played with Michael, who was fussing as he sensed the distress in the room. Now that the three of them were alone again John snatched up his son and held him close, breathing in his scent. Then he pressed him into Wanda’s arms and asked Sherlock to step out with him. Wanda waited a moment and then quickly slipped Michael into his portable crib and hurried to spy on them.

“How, Sherlock? Just tell me how? She’s a bloody assassin, how does she just fall into a well? Did someone push her? Drug her? Was this an enemy? Do I have to worry about Michael? Myself? _You_?”

“I know this is hard to accept John, especially in light of the lives we live, but she really did just fall. It was an accident. As retired assassins go she actually died in a rather peaceful way.”

“She  _drowned_ , Sherlock. Upside down. In a well. That’s something out of a bloody horror movie!”

“Judging by the position she was in before they pulled her out it’s unlikely she was conscious,” Sherlock soothed, “She either hit her head- though I saw no contusions- or she passed out for some reason. She wasn’t in pain and she probably didn’t feel much fear.”

“Well…” John paced the sitting room, “Thank gods for that, I suppose. Gods, what will I tell Michael?”

“That his mother died in a freak accident when he was little,” Sherlock shrugged, “He’ll probably have heard far more alarming stories from us before he’s old enough to be told that particular detail, or even ask the question.”

John laughed bitterly and nodded, running his hand over his face as he fought back tears. Sherlock hesitated and then wrapped his arms around John and pulled him in for a tight hug. John stiffened and then relaxed into his arms. After a few moments Wanda saw his shoulders heaving as he broke down. Sherlock held him tightly, stroking his hair gently. She could see his eyes tightening anxiously, and then they roamed over to where she stood partially hidden behind some silk flowers. Their eyes met and Sherlock’s head nodded once. She quickly hurried back to Michael’s side.

X

Wanda made a chocolate cake for Michael’s third birthday. It was lovingly decorated with blue and white roses and had several plastic dinosaurs all standing around a blue frosting lake. She sat it down on the table under the pavilion they’d rented for their active toddler. John and Sherlock were running about with him, shooting each other and the other screaming children with water pistols. John’s rolling and dodging about was rather impressive, and Michael’s ability to mimic it at age three was even more so.

Sherlock strode over to her with a grin on his face, but she slapped his hand before he could sneak a fingerful of frosting.

“So, today’s the day,” He grinned.

“He’ll say yes.”

“Of course he’ll say yes,” Sherlock scoffed, but the way he fumbled with the ring in his pocket she knew he was anxious.

“Of course he will,” She smiled, patting his cheek lovingly, “Who could resist my precious little boy?”

Sherlock smiled shyly and nodded before John got him straight in the face. She shouted at John for spraying water near he cake and both boys ran off laughing. 


	11. In Which John and Harriet have Imaginary Friends

When I was young you were there to chase the tears away.

You held my hand, and kissed my eyes, and told me you would stay.

When they yelled you held me tight and I knew I’d be okay.

When they got past you and left a bruise you swore they’d rue the day.

When he showed up at Harriet’s side I thought it would be cool.

Then he hurt you and my heart broke when I saw you fall.

Years went past and I grew up, no longer do I need a friend.

Then guns went off and shattered bones that the doctors couldn’t mend.

When I woke up to see you there I thought it was the pills.

They gave me terms in acronyms to list all of my ills.

Yet you stayed long after pain was managed and I returned home.

You gave me my reason to live back; I love you Sherlock Holmes. 


	12. Coatlock: or, In Which Vinny Got Bored And Wrote Something Sexy/Silly

It was the sharp edges on the shoulders that first drew him in, the way he could tell from the moment he saw it that it would hang on him  _just so_. The high flip collar sealed the deal and he left the shop three hundred quid poorer. He chucked his old coat and slipped it on, and that’s when he regretted not having tried it on in the shop. The inside was satin. Oh, gods, how it stroked his clothing and teased his hands on the way through! He’d never had satin interiors on his clothes before, firmly informing his tailor to  _never_  even suggest it, but here he was being molested by a  _coat_  in broad daylight.

He almost turned around. He  _almost_  returned it. Then he hurried home and upstairs, brushing past his (future) landlady as she called a reminder that he  _needed_  to find a flatmate and  _soon_. He bolted to his room and shut the door, locking it soundly behind him, before shakily undoing the buttons on his new coat. He laid it out on his bed- over the comforter as the satin sheets would just make it slip and generate static- and very slowly and reverently turned it’s sleeves inside out. Sherlock bit his index finger while surveying the dark interior.

Most people who thought of clothing fetishes thought of leather or latex, but for Sherlock Holmes it took two forms and neither of those applied. Firstly there was his penchant for sharp, bespoke, dark clothing to accompany his silky dark hair and make him look like sex personified. This was about control, and more of an obsession than a fetish though it  _did_  arouse him to be dressed to the nines. Second was his intense lust for certain fabrics whether made into clothes or not. He’d had to forgo all satin linings for this reason as he’d become insatiable at the feel.

Sherlock was hard now, his cock aching against his cotton pants. He undressed hastily, though still while giving his clothing the loving treatment he always preferred. Into a dry cleaning bag with all of it to go out Thursday morning with the rest of them, and he was careful not to crease them despite the fact they’d be pressed soon. Then he slipped out of his cotton boxers and tossed them aside as the utilitarian product they were. From his drawer he drew a pair of genuine silk pants, also bespoke and designed to allow for his erection via a pouch at the front. They fit over him tightly everywhere, applying just a bit of pressure when he was fully hard. His cock was leaking, changing the colour of his tight pants from deep purple to nearly black.

Sherlock moved slowly onto the bed and straddled his coat, swallowing hard as he stared down at it. He felt like he was about to  _violate_  it! He had to do something. Something besides just toss himself down and  _hump_  it like an animal. Talking was  _not_  on; he didn’t even like doing that with people. Instead he leaned down and pressed his lips against the tag. It started as a chaste kiss, but once the tag was revealed to be also satin he took it into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it’s tip with a hungry moan.

That did him in and he dropped from kneeling to stretched across the fabric, sliding up and down on it as he frenched the tag with increased ardour. His cock strained in it’s confines and he gasped out, releasing the tag to throw his head back as his nipples hardened to buds against the soft fabric. The backing of coarse material only gave the satin a more distinct feeling and he slipped one arm beneath it to hold the coat against him like the lover he was already seeing it as.

“Oh  _gods!_ ” Sherlock cried out, his hips snapping as he chased his release.

Sherlock’s hand moved lower so he was pressing the coat against his groin as he thrust faster and harder. A few spikes of static snapped up his body, raising the hair on his legs and arms and teasing his senses. It was his undoing. Sherlock sobbed out his orgasm as light danced behind his eyes before going limp on top of his new coat.

“Oh gods. Oh  _bloody_ hell. Oh my… well I  _can’t_  return it  _now_ , and I’ve binned my other coat and I’m out the funds to…”

Sherlock lost himself in running the tag over his tongue and against the roof of his mouth for a moment. When he pulled away his flushed cheeks and dazed eyes spoke volumes of his level of satisfaction. He stood slowly and cleaned himself up, setting his silk underwear to soak in a chemical he’d designed himself. He’d wash them in the tub in the morning and hang them to dry. His flatmate- whoever he or she might be- would have to adjust. He had a feeling he’d be using them _far_  more often. 


	13. 13. In Which John's Speech on the Tube goes a bit Differently

"There's something I need to know, Sherlock. Something that's been standing in the way of me forgiving you. Making me want to just *walk away* and never look back. I need an answer and I need an *honest* one if I'm ever going to move past you faking your death."

"I'm listening."

"Could I have prevented it?"

"... ... No."

"If you'd really jumped?"

"No. No, there was nothing you could have done differently."

"If I'd stayed instead of running to Mrs. Hudson..."

"Nothing, John."

"If I'd shot Moriarty that day at the pool..."

"We'd have left it in body bags."

"Sherlock, if I'd *just*-"

"John. I've listened to you, now you listen to me. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing different. You were too close. Someone outside of us had to make a move, someone in the shadows, and she did. I'm *alive* now because of that. Can you live with that? Can you let me live *now*?"

"... ... Yes."

"Good. Now get out. I need to go to my mind palace."


	14. Chapter 14

Angst. Sex (not vividly described.)

 

Lips. Teeth. Tongue.

The harshness of panting breath filling the hall.

The firm touch of a calloused hand over hardened flesh.

The build up as desire overwhelmed fears.

A pulse between them and then the chase for the other.

He came almost unwillingly, trembling and crying out as if frightened, taking far longer than the other despite the latter man’s hesitation to engage in a previously shunned pursuit.

Then stillness.

Panting and trembling breath.

One heavy head pillowed on the other’s shoulder as the warmth and satisfaction of post-orgasmic comfort settled over him.

Then he was pushed away.

Fear in eyes normally as placid as a still, clear lake.

Hands cutting the air like knives as panic overwhelmed him.

“It wasn’t supposed to _be_ like that!”

“How can we go back?”

“Fix this!”

“Calm down.”

“Please.”

“It was beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Just come to bed.”

“Hold me.”

Slowing heartbeats.

Darkness covering apprehension like a heavy blanket.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’ve loved you forever.”

“I know.”

“ _I’m_ supposed to be the insightful one.”

“Shhh, it’s my turn to take care of you.”

 


	15. 15. In Which Reid is Insightful and Hotch Misses Out

“Hey,” Hotch muttered, leaning forward to fill up his cup of coffee in the break room.

“Hi,” Reid replied softly.

 

“I… ah… I feel a bit bad about how I handled things yesterday.”

 

Reid rubbed at his temple, “Hotch, I’m really hung over.”

 

“I know, but that’s just it. I was drunk, Reid. You didn’t deserve to hear that tirade from me. Listen, you’re an amazing person and someday you’ll-“

 

“Don’t!” Reid snapped, putting his coffee cup down too hard and sloshing it on the counter. He swore under his breath while Hotch fetched him paper towels, which he accepted angrily.

 

“I mean it,” Hotch soothed, putting a hand on his back, “You’ll find someone right for you some day-“

 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Reid huffed, “How about _you_ listen? I’m smart and sexy and fun to be around. I also don’t base my worth on whether or not I can secure a partner. I’m good enough _on my own_ , and always have been. So whenever you or some other _moron_ decides they’re better than me-“

 

“That’s not what I meant-“

 

“Yeah, actually it is,” Reid turned to him, eyes flashing, “That whole ‘you’ll find someone right for you’ speech is bullshit, Hotch. You know why? Because the very meaning behind it is ‘someone more like you’, as if there’s something _wrong_ with me that makes me less worthy to be with ‘someone like you’. Well, there fucking _isn’t_. I’m a fucking delight, Hotch! I’m a genius with a cute ass and secure job!”

 

“I’m not-“ Hotch stammered, eyes wide under Reid’s uncharacteristic outburst.

 

“And you know what? _You’re_ missing out, because I’m just as brilliant in bed, too!”

 

“I’m not gay, Spence,” Hotch blurted, holding up his hands, “That’s all this is about, not you personally or attractiveness, just _my_ sexuality!”

 

Reid picked up his coffee cup and gave Hotch a disgusted look, “Hotch, I’m a profiler. You think I don’t know what your sexuality is?”

 

Then he walked away with his head held high while Hotch stared after him in alarm.

 

“Reid?” Hotch asked, following after him, “Reid, what does that mean? Reid what are you-“

 

Hotch’s frantic questions were cut off by the arrival of the team and a case, and Reid didn’t acknowledge him for the rest of the trip. Eventually it became too awkward a conversation to bring up again, but they both knew that Reid had left a tiny doubt niggling at the corner of Hotch’s brain.


	16. 16. In Which Hellboy Tries to Impress.

“This is disgusting,” John sighed, picking his way through the mess in Hellboy’s room.

“What are you talking about?” Hellboy grumbled, glancing up from where he lounged on his bed with a few cats, “I just swept _today_.”

John paused and cast about, trying to figure out where Hellboy had swept. His eyes narrowed at the mess around the litter boxes and Hellboy realized he hadn’t swept very _much_ , but he had legitimately swept. John apparently came to the same conclusion because he put his hands on his hips and gave Hellboy a cold glare, but the question he asked wasn’t what Hellboy expected.

“ _Why_ did you sweep?” John demanded to know.

“Um… why?” Hellboy asked with a frown, “Why? Do humans sweep for different reasons than big red demons?”

“No, I meant did you sweep with the intention of cleaning or because you broke something and didn’t want your cats to cut their paws?” John huffed.

“Oh. The last one.”

“I figured,” John sighed, “Hellboy, this is disgusting.”

“You said that already,” Hellboy grumped.

“If you don’t start cleaning up after yourself I’m going to start restricting your movement again.”

Hellboy sat up sharply, eyes narrowed in outrage. He hadn’t been locked in his rooms overnight since John took over running the Bureau, and the lock-up by day was really only because Hellboy had been unreasonable one day in going out for a walk when the sun was still up. However, by night he was allowed not only around the compound, but topside as well as long as he didn’t get himself caught and took an agent with him. The agent didn’t even have to stay _with_ him so much as in the same vicinity, so he usually just let them follow along on a scooter using his tracker. He had never had such freedom and he wasn’t willing to let it go.

“Scout, you wouldn’t _dare_ ,” Hellboy snarled.

“I don’t want to start problems with you, HB,” John sighed, “I’m not talking about imprisoning you, I’m talking about punishment. I’ll ground you, Red. I mean it. This place is unsanitary. It doesn’t have to be spotless but you _need_ to get it under control and keep it that way. Got it?”

Hellboy grumbled but didn’t argue. The place was awful. John and Liz used to come in and spend time with him but lately they’d avoided his room like the plague. So he figured the order to clean up had been a long time coming. HB got up and spent a few minutes tossing out trash and sweeping up cat litter. Then he got bored and went back to weight lifting.

A few hours later John returned with the tray full of his dinner and glanced around the room. He gave it a thoroughly disappointed look and left without a word. Hellboy’s stomach dropped. He knew he shouldn’t care. It was _his_ living space. If he wanted to slum it up it was his choice, except he did care. John had entered into the select group of people who he gave a flying fuck about, and therefore his opinion was important to Hellboy.

So he got up and spent half the night cleaning the place from top to bottom, and the layers of filth he found legitimately horrified him. Someone had decided the litter box wasn’t clean enough and Hellboy spent a while scrubbing things down with bleach. He was glad it was nighttime so he had the ventilation to do the deep cleaning, because even a demon wasn’t fond of huffing bleach in an enclosed vault. Finally he had the place respectable and was pleasantly surprised by how much room he had… once you got passed the pile of trash bags by the door. Hellboy was ready for a shower and a nap, but he ended up headed for the bags instead. He hauled them out to the trash bins just inside the garage, chuckling at the irony that there was a trash bin beside their fake garbage truck.

Hellboy was in the shower when John returned and he stepped out wrapped in a towel to find John standing in the middle of his place gazing around with a wide grin on his face.

“HB, this is _amazing._ You’ve actually got room in here! We could play games! Throw a party!”

“Throw a party?!” Hellboy snarled, pretending to be annoyed to get over the flush that ran up his body at the sight of John so thrilled, “I just cleaned this place. No way you and your buddies are coming in here wrecking this place. Shit.”

John laughed and Hellboy gave his back a fond smile as he walked out of Hellboy’s rooms.

“Boyscout,” Hellboy chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.


End file.
